


the coffee bean king of new york

by bstarship



Category: Marvel Cinematic Universe, Spider-Man (Tom Holland Movies), Spider-Man - All Media Types
Genre: Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Father-Son Relationship, Fluff and Humor, Gen, Hurt/Comfort, Light Angst, May Parker (Spider-Man) Needs a Hug, Minor Michelle Jones/Peter Parker, Peter Parker Has a Bad Day, Peter Parker Needs a Break, Peter Parker is a Little Shit, Peter Parker is a Mess, Protective Tony Stark, Tony Stark Has A Heart, he can't even lie about that one, new york's finest barista, peter parker did not put time management skills on his resume
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-11-02
Updated: 2020-11-02
Packaged: 2021-03-09 00:22:14
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,065
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27295606
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/bstarship/pseuds/bstarship
Summary: “I know I’m just one guy,” Peter began as he looked at the mess of webbed-up guys on the brick walls and gum-stained pavement, “but seriously—you guys realize I’m an Avenger; right? Well, basically. Not like the Avengers are really a thing anymore, but you get the picture. I don’t mean to hype myself up, but—”His post-battle speech was interrupted by a sharp jab to his side. Once he looked to his right, the fake Spider-Man faced him with a bloodied knife in his hand. He had cut his way out of his web trap while Peter wasn’t looking.The pain didn’t hit him right away, not really. It first appeared as a pinch, and it spread like wildfire after that, burning and hot like a rash he couldn’t control. He pressed his hand to his side and felt the cool liquid against his gloves.Meanwhile, the fake Spider-Man was frozen before him, speechless.“Seriously?” Peter breathed out, feeling the pain radiate up his chest. “I thought we were friends.”orPeter thinks he has time to get a job, and then he goes and gets himself stabbed.
Relationships: May Parker (Spider-Man) & Peter Parker, Michelle Jones & Ned Leeds & Peter Parker, Peter Parker & Tony Stark
Comments: 14
Kudos: 145





	the coffee bean king of new york

♢

When Peter came home to find May crying as she packed items into a cardboard box, he instinctively made a list in his head of reasons why before even saying hello. One, she finally had enough of living with him and she wanted out for good. Two, everything that she was putting in boxes used to be Ben’s belongings and she could no longer look at them. Three, she was dying and only had a week left to live so she was packing things up to make it easier for Peter. Four, _he_ was dying and he somehow didn’t know it yet. Five, they would be moving to some random town in Ohio so they could become tire builders and bookbinders. Six, seven, and so on. 

She wiped beneath her nose with the back of her sleeve while placing coffee table books and fragile picture frames side-by-side in a box. She had yet to look at her nephew, eyes still welling with tears with each object she touched. Every so often, she choked out a small sob as if an upsetting thought had resurfaced on the brain. But then she would push it all down, mumble something like, _“you’re fine, May, it’s fine—don’t be such a baby”,_ and carry on packing. 

After a few minutes of watching the non-contextual tragedy take place, Peter cleared his throat. May’s head snapped over, and her eyes were wider than he had ever seen them. Yet, the expression quickly dissolved into a faux smile, deep lines creasing on her forehead while her nose was as red as a cherry tomato. Her cheeks were still slick from her tears. 

“Are you… okay?” he asked cautiously, hand clutching the strap of his backpack for dear life it seemed. He could no longer think about the large stack of assignments on components and organic chemistry that were weighing down his shoulders. For now, his brain was concentrated on the awkward hesitance he felt when it came to emotional availability. At the same time, all he wanted was to be there for May in this strange time of need.

Whatever the _time of need_ even was. She could have gotten into an argument with a street vendor for all he knew. Maybe she really did decide that it was time for them to move on from Queens. Street vendor experiences were always a toss-up. 

Her smile was tight as she nodded. “Yeah. Of course. How was school?”

Peter set his backpack down on a dining room chair and kept his pace slow. “Fine,” he answered. He joined her in the living room with his hands stuffed in his pockets. “You—uh, you sure you’re okay?”

May stood, soothed the wrinkles in her pants, and adjusted her glasses. The redness on her nose and cheeks had reduced, but the glassy look in her eyes remained despite her reassuring smile. “Why wouldn’t I be okay?” she asked.

“Well—” Peter twisted his lips and nodded toward the cardboard box on the floor. When she followed his gaze, her smile fell. “And you’ve kinda been crying. A lot. I’ve been here for like, five minutes now.”

She blinked a few times. “You’ve been—and you just stood there?” she said, playfully hitting his arm. “Watching me cry? You creep.”

A smile broke out on Peter’s face. “ _No_ , no. I just wanted to see if I could figure out why so I didn’t have to ask you.”

“Oh.” May pressed her lips thin as she nodded. “Yeah, I—uh, well, I’ve just been packing some things. F-for storage reasons. Just too much stuff, you know? The older you get, the more you start to accumulate things over the years, and it can really get out of hand if you don’t do something about it sooner than later. I mean, no one needs three fly swatters. No one even needs _one_ fly swatter. So. Yeah. Just packing.” 

Peter raised a brow and smiled in amusement. His aunt when flustered was an entertaining sight to see, but in this case, there was more to the story than she was letting on. “Okay,” he muttered, dragging his voice out. “I _definitely_ believe you.”

“You have to believe me,” she said. “I’m family.”

“That’s not how it works.”

May wrinkled her nose. “All right then, smarty pants. How does it work?”

“There can’t be belief without trust,” he explained, “therefore, I have to trust you in order to believe you. But you’re not making a very convincing argument. So—” Peter shrugged. “—I have no reason to trust you.” 

She let out a fake gasp. “Peter Benjamin Parker, you have broken my heart.”

“Sorry,” he told her, backing away toward the dining room so he could retrieve his backpack. If he wanted to watch _Alien_ with Ned tonight, then he had to get a headstart on his essay or he would never get it done. “You have to earn my trust. If you won’t tell me what’s wrong, then—” He shrugged again. “Can’t help you.”

It was as if someone had flipped a switch inside May’s head. The cheerful facade she wore for him crumbled right before his eyes. She rubbed away the tears before they could run off along her jaw. 

At the sight, Peter’s heart stammered in his chest. 

“May,” he whispered. “Please tell me what’s wrong.”

She could barely get the words out beyond her trembling lips. As she hugged herself tightly, she said, “I got a-an eviction notice this morning. We have until the end of the month to find a new place.”

Peter couldn’t speak for a moment. He let the words marinate in his head before saying his first thought. “Why the hell are we being evicted?” he asked, voice firm. “All our landlord does is ignore phone calls and say that black mold is just dirt. That’s not fair. We shouldn’t be—why would we—?”

“Peter,” May said slowly, reaching over to hold his arm. “We’ve done nothing wrong. I’ve just been a little behind on a few payments. Apparently, last month was the final straw.”

Peter frowned. He could feel his anger and disdain for New York landlords grow with each second. This one, in particular, had made a dozen rude comments to May, and now he had the nerve to evict them. Peter clenched his hands into fists at his sides. 

“I have to speak to him,” he said. “I’m gonna find him, and I’ll—”

“What’re you gonna do?” she asked, laughing through the waver in her voice. “Punch our landlord? We’ll be out on the streets by noon tomorrow. We’ll be okay, Peter. I know we will.” 

He furrowed his brows as he looked at her. She wore a smile despite the few tears that slipped down her cheeks. She was stronger than him—always would be. And he had no idea how the hell she did it. He nodded and wrapped his arms around her. 

“I’m sorry,” he mumbled. He closed his eyes with a sigh. If he kept them open any longer, he was certain that he would cry, too. “You don’t deserve this.”

“Maybe I do,” she said, chuckling as she pulled away. “Maybe I need to find a better career.”

“That’s insane.” He shook his head. “You love what you do. And I honestly think that F.E.A.S.T. would fall apart without you.” 

She shrugged. “With this year’s budget cuts, I’m not even sure they’ll be able to afford to keep me around any longer.”

“Don’t say that.” Peter shook his head. “You can’t say that. And they’d be crazy not to keep you. You’re the reason the Harlem branch even exists.”

“Now you’re just stroking my ego.”

“Good,” he told her. “Keep your job. It makes you happy. And I’ll—” He sighed as an idea came to mind. An idea he didn’t particularly enjoy but was an idea nevertheless. “I’ll start lookin’ around for jobs, too. It’s about time I do that, I think.”

May furrowed her brows. “You want a job?”

“Why do you seem so shocked?”

“I’m not,” she said, shaking her head. “I just kind of thought that maybe after all this time, Tony had at least given you _something_.” 

“No, he doesn’t believe in child labor.”

“That doesn’t even make any sense. You still work for him.” 

“Oh.”

May rolled her eyes and smiled. “You don’t have to get a job, Peter. I won’t make you do that. Plus, you’re never home as it is. I’d worry too much.”

“Fine,” he muttered. “I guess you’re right. _Like always_.”

“ _Hey._ Just for that comment, you have to listen to me sing Gloria Estefan for the next two hours.” 

“Did I do something wrong? Am I in purgatory?” 

May reached up to ruffle his hair and gently pushed him down the hall. “Do your homework or no cheesecake tonight.” 

“How could you even morally threaten that?” he asked. “You know how much I love cheesecake.”

“ _Go._ Before I take away my famous chicken curry, too.”

“This is abuse.” 

“Peter, I swear to God—”

* * *

Peter wasn’t sure how, but that Thursday afternoon, he was standing inside of the local Coffee Bean with a finished job application in one hand and a hot chocolate in the other. He didn’t like coffee that much, plus, caffeine made him jittery. While the idea of a part-time customer service job scared him half to death, he had to remind himself that it was nothing compared to almost dying every weekend. Apparently, he didn’t mind putting the time in to help others when it came to saving lives. But the thought of serving coffee to grumpy middle-class New Yorkers wearing air pods and carrying yoga mats beneath their arms terrified him to his core. 

If only Spider-Man was a paying job, then he wouldn’t have to worry about any of this. 

Given his abilities, he could work as a trapeze artist at the circus if he wanted to—which, to be honest, was a weird concept to think about. Meanwhile—and he didn’t like to boast—his IQ could get him far enough in any advanced science corporation or industry to make a six-figure salary. A salary! At only sixteen-years-old no less. Which was why it baffled Peter that he was still handing in a sheet of paper that said, “I love coffee” beside the words, “List skills relevant to the position applied for”. 

Because he didn’t love coffee. It was a total lie. And yet, he handed it over to the shift manager with a proud smile. He was _so_ not getting a call back. 

Of course, to his luck, the manager said, “why don’t we go over some questions so we can get you started as soon as possible?” without bothering to glance at his application. Peter’s proud smile took on a new nervous direction. So, he followed them to the back where they kept their storage and cleaning supplies, and he second-guessed every single decision he had ever made in his life. 

He didn’t have time for this. With school, decathlon, homework, and Spider-Man, he hardly had enough time to sleep more than six hours a night these days. He had to raincheck on Tony Stark the other day—a raincheck! On Tony! The billionaire played it off cooly, but deep down, Peter knew he was offended. Not many sixteen-year-olds had to call and cancel a weekend at the Avengers headquarters because they were swamped with too many essays. Peter could imagine the conversation that Tony had with Rhodey after that.

 _“I swear, I’m never doing anything for that kid ever again. '_ _Sorry, Mister Stark, I can’t come by this weekend'_ **_—_ ** _God, ‘sorry’ my ass. The next time he needs his suit fixed, Raincheck McGee is gonna find that poor old Mister Stark won’t have enough time for him, and then he’ll know. He’ll know how it feels. Oh yeah, that’ll teach him.”_

 _“Uh-huh. Sure,”_ Rhodey would say as if he was really listening the whole time. When it came to Tony, sometimes filler words were needed to encourage the man’s irrational stream of consciousness. He could talk for hours with responses of ‘mhm’ and ‘yep’ to keep him motivated. 

_“Then he’ll go off and feel sorry for himself,”_ Tony would continue, scratching at his beard in deep thought. _“Probably be all mopey and whatnot in the middle of a fight. God, he’d get himself killed somehow. Shit. Okay. Fine. I’ll let it slide this time. But only this time.”_

_“You said that last time.”_

_“Last time was last time. This time is this time. Now, this is the last time.”_

_“I actually hate you sometimes; you know that?”_

_“Yeah. I love you too.”_

Peter turned back into the conversation with the manager as he bounced his knees. The plastic folding chair beneath him creaked each time he settled, but that was the thing—he couldn’t settle. Every two seconds, he would shift positions from crossed legs to both feet flat on the floor. He was confident he wouldn’t get the job over his anxiety alone. The poor manager most likely felt anxious by looking at him. 

It didn’t help that his entire job application looked and read absolutely _ridiculous_. What the hell was he thinking? 

“So,” the manager started, smiling kindly, “let’s start with the basics, yeah? Why would you like to work for Coffee Bean?”

It was an easy question, at least, it should have been. Peter opened his mouth to speak, but all that came out was a chuckle as he shrugged. 

“Uh—it’s a great place,” he said, wondering how the hell he was going to survive college at this rate. “Yeah. Nice vibe. And, um—need the money, I guess.”

Luckily for him, the manager laughed. “Valid point,” she said and jotted something down on a piece of paper. “Money is good. Would you be able to describe for me a specific situation where you have provided proficient customer service? Like, at your last job—that sort of thing. And, why was this effective?”

Peter was starting to wish that he had skipped out on that hot chocolate. “Er—lots of people tell me I’m friendly.”

She raised her brows and blinked a few times. “O-okay. Sure. That works. And you’re in high school?”

“Yeah, yeah,” he said, nodding. That was a question he would have to try real hard to get wrong. “I go to Midtown Tech.”

“No shit, really?” 

He hummed.

“You must be smart then,” the manager muttered while she continued to write notes down. “Makes me wonder why you’re settling for a Coffee Bean.”

“Not a lot of places are hiring teenagers except for McDonald’s and Dairy Queens, so—” He shrugged. 

The manager laughed again. And somehow, Peter was hired on the spot. 

He was starting to hope that he had asked Tony for a small stipend instead. Peter’s chest tightened at the thought of going straight to work from school and then swinging through the streets as a masked vigilante by night. Nevertheless, he made a promise to himself. He made a promise to May. 

“You got— _wait what?_ ” she asked the minute he arrived home.

“I got a job.”

She stood at the stove, pouring a thick red sauce over some meatballs while Peter rocked on his heels. He had his hands stuffed deep into his pockets; for some reason, the idea of telling her his news made him nervous. His eyes were glued to the floor. 

“You didn’t have to do that, Peter.”

“I know,” he said, shrugging. “It’s not really a big deal, though. I wanted to do it.”

May’s expression was tight. She seemed almost agitated that he had impulsively done something without notifying her. Of course, he had mentioned it the other day, but she had a lot on her mind. He didn’t blame her.

“Besides,” Peter continued, “I think it’ll be fun.” 

He didn’t. Not necessarily. But he wasn’t going to tell her that he felt obligated to help out like this. It would only make her feel worse. 

“Fun,” she muttered and stifled a laugh. “Peter, why are you doing this?”

“Cos’ I want to.”

“Be serious.”

“I am serious!” he exclaimed with a lilt to his tone. “I promise, I wanna do this. I wanna help out. I just think that it’s time I should. N-not because I think you need it or anything. But I should help out more. I want to help out more.”

May furrowed her brows as she let out a sigh. “Pete—”

“I gotta do my part, y’know?” he said, voice cracking. “I-I gotta help out. You look after me, so I’ll look after you. I promised. I promised Ben I would look after you.” 

It didn’t matter that the meatballs were starting to burn on the stove. Once Peter’s eyes watered, then May’s did as well. She pulled him into a hug before he hurt his own feelings anymore. 

“Since when did you get to be so bright?” she mumbled. She held him a little tighter. 

Peter huffed out a laugh. “I’ve been pretending this whole time,” he said. “I’m really good at acting. I’m actually just dumb.”

May set a hand in his hair as she looked at him. He always wondered if she saw a little bit of Ben in his eyes or his smile. He wondered if she thought about him every time they spoke. “You’re only sixteen, Peter,” she told him. “You’re allowed to slow down and enjoy life, okay? You’ve already got a lot going on. I don’t even know how you do it. School, Spider-Man, Regents exams—”

Peter shuttered. “Don’t remind me. I haven’t even started studying.”

“ _AP_ exams.”

“Please, stop. I can’t take it.”

“If you don’t like this job, you don’t have to keep it,” she said. “I don’t want you to do something you don’t like.”

He nodded. “I promise. I’ll be fine. I kinda want to force myself to like coffee anyway. If I wanna go to MIT, I’ll probably need to establish a caffeine addiction ahead of time to keep up with my studies.”

May rolled her eyes at that and returned back to the stove. “You’re impossible and I hate you.”

“Would it make you feel better if I told you that I got this job so I can be your personal barista every morning?”

“You’re a saint and I love you.”

* * *

On Peter’s fifth day at Coffee Bean, he finally had enough of the menu memorized so he no longer needed to look at the cheat sheet. He hadn’t known what a macchiato was until two weeks ago, and, honestly, the taste was growing on him. At this rate, he would be enjoying lattes by freshman year—given that he wasn’t already fed up with caffeine-addicted customers by that point. While he only worked for four hours in the afternoons, he could easily tell which customers were the worst to handle. He should have known that New Yorkers wouldn’t care that he was barely sixteen-years-old—they needed their coffee, and they would do anything to get it. 

His first paycheck went right to May. She tried to refuse—in fact, it took two whole days for him to crack her—and eventually, she hugged him, thanked him, and told him he was never allowed to do that again. He couldn’t break the Parker Pride in himself, so there was no way he could chip away at her own. He wished he could make her see that she didn’t have to do this all alone, that he was right there with her. 

After a few weeks at Coffee Bean, Peter started to recognize that maybe taking up a job in the midst of his high school and hero career wasn’t such a good plan. He didn’t have time to see his friends. He didn’t have time to eat or even use the bathroom. And, he had gotten a B+ on an assignment because he had turned it in a day late. Sure, he skipped school a bunch in the past, but he had never turned in a late assignment before. That was the part that scared him most of all.

Peter couldn’t fall behind; he wouldn’t let himself. 

Some days were boring. Some days were a drag. And some days harder than others. He had been late to school that morning, hurriedly shoving random papers from his backpack and into his locker before making it to homeroom five minutes after the bell. To his luck, he wasn’t given a tardy slip, but he had a nagging feeling that the rest of the day would be downhill from there. 

It was all little things—no paper towels in the bathroom, slipping down the stairs and falling on his butt in front of twenty people, his classmates snickering when he answered a question wrong, and receiving a text from Happy that said: “ _Tony wants to see you soon._ ” No “ _hi, how are you?_ ”, only cryptic words and a full stop period to send a chill down Peter’s spine in the middle of the cafeteria line. 

Once school let out, he found himself trapped in the bathroom with a severe case of indigestion. He was lucky he had managed to get to work with a minute to spare, yet the journey had never been more stressful. He had the unfortunate fate of stepping on a pile of dog poo and seeing a pigeon gnawing at a dead rat. Only in New York. 

The day couldn’t get much worse from there, he thought, tying his brown Coffee Bean apron around his waist. However, he wished he had knocked on wood. When he looked down, there was a bleach stain down the front, and it was the only apron left that wasn’t already in the wash. As it turned out, the day could get worse. 

With eleven cups lined up on the bar, waiting to be made, Peter’s shift began. He didn’t look at a clock for another hour, and that happened to be when he glanced up to find MJ smirking right back at him. 

“Sup, nerd,” she greeted, appearing genuinely happy to see him as she stuffed her hands into her jacket pockets. “You better not mess up my order.”

Ned was behind her, smiling along before sending Peter a quick wave. 

Peter felt an embarrassed shutter run down his shoulders. It didn’t help that he had burned himself on the espresso machine only a few minutes prior. 

“What’re you guys doing here?” he asked as he cleaned off the frother. “Shouldn’t you be doing better things with your time? Like, not bothering me?” 

“MJ found ten bucks on the street, so I came up with the idea that we should drop by and put it in the tip jar,” Ned said, beaming. 

She nodded. “And then I used it to pay for our drinks instead.”

Peter lifted a cup up to his face and read, “ _Michael. Matcha Latte_. That you?”

“I literally told them _Michelle._ ”

“Honestly, I thought you said _Miguel_ ,” Ned added. 

She shrugged. “Whatever. Can you make it extra foamy? It really gives a fun kick to that first sip, if you know what I mean.”

Peter chuckled as he nodded. At least he had something to get his mind off of the day. “I don’t usually give people special treatment, but I’ll make an exception, I guess.”

“Nice. I’m special.”

Ned furrowed his brows. “Am I special?”

“You wanna be special?” Peter asked. “What drink did you order?”

“A hot chocolate.” 

“I’ll put whipped cream on the top then—just for you.”

Ned’s smile grew, and Peter’s did too. A minute or two later, he had his friends’ drinks prepared and ready for them on the bar. Somewhere in that time, he had a mild confidence boost that led him to draw a heart beside MJ’s name. Well, _Micheal_ ’s name. But the confidence dwindled in an instant, and he ended up tossing the cup and fixing the drink all over again. He would work up the courage one day. 

“Cool, thanks loser,” MJ said to him, taking her first sip of the foam that decorated her upper lip. 

He pressed his lips together in a thin line and smiled. “Yeah. Of course. Anytime.”

“You coming by later to work on the organic chem project thingy?” she asked. “I heard that three brains are better than two.”

“I think the saying is two heads are better than one,” he said, laughing lightly, yet his smile quickly fell. “But, no, I-I don’t think I can. Sorry.”

“Bummer.”

Beside MJ, Ned took a sip of his drink and frowned. “No cinnamon?” He pouted. “You don’t think I’m special.”

Peter raised a brow. “You didn’t even ask for cinnamon.”

“Yeah, I know. I just hoped you could read my mind.”

“Dude, he’s not superhuman,” MJ said. 

“Yeah, I’m—I’m not—” Peter cleared his throat. “I’m not superhuman. That’d be crazy. Now, are you guys gonna leave me alone or just stand here all day and make fun of me at my job?” 

“I like the latter.”

“Well, I was hoping for cinnamon,” Ned said, “but clearly that’s not happening.”

Peter let out a groan. Nevertheless, he laughed as he pointed toward the door and said, _“Leave_. _"_

Ned let out a sigh and started off toward the door with a meek wave. Meanwhile, MJ shot Peter a wink, and he was left wishing that he had kept the doodled heart after all.

* * *

“Whoa. Dude, this is so weird. I mean, one of us is clearly gonna have to change,” Peter said, clad in his scarlet suit as the sun finished setting between the tall buildings. He had his fair share of alleyway thug takedowns in the past, but this was a new breed of strange. He was fighting _himself_. Or rather, a copycat of himself. A fake Spider-Man—a _knock-off_ , as one would say. “I appreciate the effort, but I gotta say, the suit could use a little more love. What kind of fabric did you use?”

With a few flicks of the wrist, Peter webbed the man up to the wall before he could answer. The fake Spider-Man let out a strangled groan as webbing covered his mouth a moment later. 

Peter placed a hand around his ear. “What? Sorry. Didn’t catch that.”

The man tried to speak again just as a pair of headlights and the loud revving of an engine stole Peter’s attention away. From down the alley, a car came to a quick stop, and a few others—this time wearing hoods and ski-masks—stumbled out of the car with their guns pointed toward the sky. 

“Who are these guys?” Peter asked the fake Spider-Man. “Your friends?” 

Before a shot rang out, Peter yanked the weapon from the leading man’s hands. 

“You gonna need this?” he asked, holding up the gun. “Or can I toss it? Seems kinda dangerous.”

Peter jumped as a shot was fired in his direction, and he sprung into action. He kicked the first guy down without hesitation, webs flying at the others and tugging them in so he could place a few punches without them touching him. Yet, he lost his footing before he could control it, and one of the thug’s punches met him square in the jaw. 

“Okay, _ow_ ,” Peter said, rubbing his face. “You don’t have to be so mean.” 

He was able to web a few down to the street within the next minute, swinging and kicking them down flat so they could kiss the pavement. Peter felt his adrenaline running on maximum drive; he was in the zone, and nothing about his previously sucky day was going to stop him. 

“I know I’m just one guy,” Peter began as he looked at the mess of webbed-up guys on the brick walls and gum-stained pavement, “but seriously—you guys realize I’m an _Avenger_ ; right? Well, basically. Not like the Avengers are really a thing anymore, but you get the picture. I don’t mean to hype myself up, but—”

His post-battle speech was interrupted by a sharp jab to his side. Once he looked to his right, the fake Spider-Man faced him with a bloodied knife in his hand. He had cut his way out of his web trap while Peter wasn’t looking. 

The pain didn’t hit him right away, not really. It first appeared as a pinch, and it spread like wildfire after that, burning and hot like a rash he couldn’t control. He pressed his hand to his side and felt the cool liquid against his gloves. 

Meanwhile, the fake Spider-Man was frozen before him, speechless.

“Seriously?” Peter breathed out, feeling the pain radiate up his chest. “I thought we were friends.”

Fake Spider-Man ran away after that, and Peter didn’t have the energy to catch up to him. Not when he had a gaping gash in his side that forced him to double over against the alley’s walls. 

“This day just keeps getting worse and worse,” he muttered to himself. He was able to hobble away from the scene of the crime before his knees finally gave in. He landed against a dumpster with a startling clang. The pain that splintered through his shoulder was nothing in comparison to the prickling heat along his side. 

Peter rolled his head back, feeling the chill of the metal dumpster through his mask before taking off the concealing material. The unconscious group of thugs was too far away to bother him. His brain now felt too foggy to register if his wound was severe or not. Quite honestly, he could hardly remember the moment of impact. He couldn’t remember how far the knife had cut into his skin. 

“Shit,” he seethed as he sat up straighter. “Not good. S’not good.” 

It would have been a smart decision to wear his mask and hear what his AI had to say, but Peter could hardly catch his breath. His lungs felt fine, yet the exertion from taking down those men and the sudden pain he felt with each movement made breathing hard. It felt like a nightmare he had once before. One he couldn’t escape because he was too unaware to realize that he needed to. 

He closed his eyes and listened to the sounds of the city. It was less painful to focus on car horns and conversations, and the breeze rustling through distant trees could lull him to sleep. He didn’t need to sleep. But he felt more tired than he ever had before. 

“Good job, Pete,” he whispered. “You went an’ got y’rself killed.” 

“Throw an _almost_ in there, kid, cos’ your savior is here.”

Peter’s eyes snapped open as he let out a gasp. An Iron Man suit stood before him, and whether or not Tony was inside, Peter had never been happier to see such a sight. 

“Mis’er Stark?” he asked. “S’really you?”

The faceplate opened, and the cunningly bearded man revealed himself. “Yup, unfortunately,” he said, kneeling before Peter. “So, what’s the sitch? Why did I just get an alert from FRIDAY telling me to come all the way to Queens right before I was about to sit down for a nice, hearty dinner? I can’t always come at the drop of a hat, Pete. I have better things to do with my night. Like, play online solitaire and watch cat videos until my eyes bleed.” 

Peter shrugged. “No idea,” he said as his eyes fluttered shut. “I feel fine.”

Tony hummed. “Oh, yeah. Sure. What’s that on your side then, huh? Blood? What’d you do?”

“Some guy stabbed me.”

“Stabbed—wait, you got stabbed?” 

Peter nodded. 

“What the hell, kid?” Tony slid his arms under Peter and lifted him into his arms. “Of course. The one night Pepper has off and you get frickin’ stabbed. Fri, tell Miss Potts to ready-up some medical supplies. Hey, Pete? You still with me?”

Although Peter’s eyes were still closed, he could tell—by the wind stinging at his exposed skin—that they had taken off into the night. Flying was something that he had grown to love. When he let go of his webs and let gravity take control, the feeling of free-falling toward the city was there to make him feel grounded. He had grown fond of the swirl in his gut and the rush of the wind against him. 

But now, Peter couldn’t focus on that. He struggled to focus on anything. He felt one with the air, and the strong arms that held him seemed to fade away. 

“Been stabbed before,” Peter heard himself say. “Not like this.”

“What, you’re just now telling me that you’ve been stabbed before?” Tony asked. He held onto Peter a little tighter. “Whatever you do, don’t pass out on me. We’ll save that for when I’m sewing you up.”

“You’re suing me?”

“For all of the emotional turmoil you’ve caused since I’ve met you? Yeah. Maybe. But that’s not what I said.” 

“M’tired,” Peter mumbled, stuffing his face into the metal chest plate of Tony’s suit. The wind was loud and harsh, yet his sensitive hearing hardly picked up on it—his senses were too busy focusing on something else. 

“Yeah, makes sense,” Tony said. “Losing blood’ll do that to ya. Promise you’ll stay with me?”

Peter nodded and hummed. “Promise.”

He didn’t keep his promise, not at first. After that, Peter was never completely there. He had moments of consciousness, moments where he heard soft voices and saw light against his eyelids. Moments where the sting in his side was enough to stir him awake for only a second. He could feel pressure on his side and a hand squeezing his. And he could hear Tony say, “don’t move for me, kiddo, I’ve got shaky hands” and a kinder, sweeter voice tell him that it would be over soon. 

The first thing Peter truly felt as he regained consciousness was the ache in his jaw from clenching it too hard. The wound in his side had affected him physically in more ways than he realized. 

“Care for a scotch?” Tony asked, approaching from the side with a glass in his hand. “It’ll numb the pain.”

Peter had woken up on a couch in a ritzy home he knew he would never be able to afford. It was one he had seen once or twice before, a home in the Upper East Side that housed Tony Stark when he wasn’t working. When Peter glanced up at Tony, he twisted his torso around and let out a groan.

“Easy there, you’ll rip a stitch.”

“Stitch?” Peter ignored the pain for a moment to lift the shirt that Tony had most likely given him. His side was covered in stained bandages. “Shit.”

“Yeah, shit’s right,” Tony said, sitting down on the coffee table across from him. 

Peter continued to fight through the pain as he sat up straight, but the exhaustion in his brain left it feeling like a bowling bowl on his shoulders. 

“I wasn’t gonna bring this up now, cos’ you clearly don’t know a damn thing that’s going on—” Tony set his glass of scotch down on the table beside him. “—but I heard through the grapevine that you got a job.” 

“W-who told you?” Peter asked, clearing his throat. 

Tony leaned over toward a side table and handed Peter a glass of water. 

“Thanks.”

“Who do you think told me?” Tony raised a brow. “You think that I didn’t call up your aunt to tell her that her nephew had nearly gotten himself killed _again_? You think that she didn’t go off for ten minutes about how you getting a job was a terrible idea and that it would eventually lead to something like this? Don’t doubt for one second that the reason you bloodied up my couch is because you became a barista, Mister Parker.”

“I’m an excellent barista, just so you know,” Peter mumbled as he sipped on the lukewarm water. “Made five dollars in tips yesterday.”

“Oh, wow, yeah,” Tony said. “Now you’re really raking in cash.”

“I only have this stupid job because you won’t pay me,” Peter replied with an edge in his tone. “You pretty much act like I work for you but don’t give me a dime. I’m not asking for money, i-it’s just—sometimes it feels like you’re just using me for your own personal gain. It’s like you don’t even care about me.” 

Tony stared at him with wide eyes and blinked. “Where’d that come from, kid?” 

Peter could feel a slight sting in his chest, but he knew it wasn’t because of any inflicted injuries. He hugged his arms and avoided Tony’s gaze. “Nowhere,” he muttered. “It’s nothing.”

“Uh, it’s something if I say it’s something,” Tony said. He patted Peter’s knee. “Now open up. I’m all ears.” 

Peter took a deep breath, tugged at the blanket draped over his legs, and shook his head. “It’s stupid.”

“I bet that’s not true.”

“We’re being evicted at the end of the month,” he said quietly, continuing to look elsewhere as Tony’s eyes burned into him. “I just wanted to help.”

Tony was quiet for a moment, and he kept eerily still. There was nothing but the crackling of flames in the fireplace across the room. “Why didn’t you tell me?” he asked after a long moment. “I could’ve helped, Pete. You know I’d always help.”

“But I didn’t _want_ you to help,” Peter said. He met Tony’s eyes, all warm and worried, and sighed. “I don’t like feeling like a charity case. And May especially doesn’t like it. She doesn’t even want my help.”

“Don’t consider it charity,” Tony told him. “Consider it family helping family.” 

“Family helping family?”

He nodded. 

“Are you calling yourself my family, Mister Stark?” Peter asked, a hint of a smile tugging on his lips. 

Tony went into defensive mode, resting his hand against the back of his neck as he furrowed his brows and laughed at Peter’s question. “What?” he said. “No. That’s—well, what even _is_ family? Now _that’s_ a question.”

Peter shrugged. “A family is whatever you want it to be.”

The words seemed to resonate with Tony—Peter could see it in his eyes. And as the man’s smile grew, Peter could also see that he had known all along. 

“It’s some annoying little prick who eats all my food and makes me fly out to Queens so I can save his life—that’s what it is,” Tony said, rising to his feet. “Well, you wanna stay the night? It’s past your bedtime.” 

“What do you think I should do, Mister Stark?” Peter asked softly as he chewed on his bottom lip. “About May. The eviction. About my job.”

Tony sighed and sat down beside Peter on the couch. “You can always come to me or Pepper for help—you know that. And I know you have way too much pride for any normal person, but it really is your choice. If you wanna keep your job making frappuccinos and lattes, sure. Do it. Learn a new skill. But you don’t have to carry the entire world on your shoulders, Pete. Being a kid is a hard enough job as it is. And being Spider-Man on top of that? I don’t know how you do it.” 

Peter twisted his lips. “I’m Spider-Man cos’ I wanna be. I like it. It doesn’t feel hard. But right now, I’m just so tired. And I wanna help May but she won’t let me.” 

“She probably just feels like it’s her responsibility to be providing for you,” Tony suggested, “and not the other way around.”

Peter nodded. His exhaustion was getting the best of him at the moment—he could feel it in his eyes. He wanted to curl back down against the pillows with ease, but the ache in his side would prevent him from doing so. 

“You know you have a fund, right?” 

Peter glanced at Tony with a raised brow. “What?”

“Yeah. A few months after we met, I created a fund under your name,” Tony explained as he sipped at his scotch. “Just in case you needed a few things here and there. In case I’m not around to help you. I thought I told your aunt, but honestly, I can’t remember what day it is half of the time. And you can do anything you want with the money. Take a few bucks out. Donate it. All of the above. It’s yours to do whatever you want with it.” 

Peter didn’t know what to say. He didn’t know if he remembered how to speak at all. His brain was running at a hundred paces per minute, but the only solid thought that echoed in his mind was something that Tony would never say himself. Tony did consider Peter to be family, in a way. He loved him like family. Peter didn’t know what to say. 

“Just think of it as your rainy-day fund,” Tony said. “Or don’t think of it as yours at all, if that’s what you want. I don’t want you to feel like a charity case, Pete, honestly. But—”

“Thank you.”

“What?”

“ _Thank you,_ ” Peter repeated. He could feel his eyes start to water. “F-for that. I’m sure May would—we really appreciate—yeah. Thank you. That’s—that’s really nice.”

Tony smiled. “Kid, not to be a sap, but I’d juggle Jupiter’s moons for you.” 

“And I’m sure you’ll figure out how.”

He reached over to ruffle Peter’s hair before standing up once again. “Okay, lights out,” he said, walking toward the doorway. “Don’t let me catch you up. The Coffee Bean King of New York needs his beauty sleep if he’s gonna make me two shots of espresso in the morning.”

“Make your own,” Peter said, settling back against the couch with a wince. 

“Geez, always so snippy.” Tony chuckled. He was halfway out the door before he turned back around. “Oh, and Mister Parker? I’m glad you’re not dead. Would’ve put a real big damper on things. I’m grateful.”

Peter smiled. “Aw, I’m grateful for you too.”

“Now you’re just putting words in my mouth. Okay, blockhead. Bedtime. Sleep tight.”

“Love you too.”


End file.
